


sweep me off my feet

by bloomsoftly



Series: K I S S I N G [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomsoftly/pseuds/bloomsoftly
Summary: Darcy is on sabbatical in Bucharest. Bucky is just trying to keep a low profile.Naturally, they meet.





	sweep me off my feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hollyspacey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollyspacey/gifts).



> this was first posted as the third chapter of the wonder that's keeping the stars apart, but i thought it deserved its own spotlight. my apologies if you've already read it.

Darcy was exploring a lively Bucharest market the first time she saw him. He was haggling with a merchant over the price of some type of fruit, which wasn’t out of the ordinary here. But what drew her eye was that he kept shifting anytime someone walked by him, like he couldn’t stand to have his back unprotected. Maybe too many world disasters had left her paranoid, but she had a weird feeling about him. And then he turned and caught her staring, and she was swept up in an entirely different kind of feeling.

She felt bad about the staring, she really did, but the man was the most attractive male specimen she’d seen in months—hell, maybe years, or even her entire lifetime. He had a cap pulled low over his face, but she felt his piercing stare all the way across the marketplace. It sent pleasant shivers skittering down her spine, and she decided that even if he was trouble, she wouldn’t mind a helping. Or two, or three. She grinned at him, partly in apology and partly because it was impossible not to try and see what a smile would look like on that face.

But instead of returning the gesture, the frown lines around his mouth deepened even further, and he turned back to the vendor. His thumbs hooked around the straps of his backpack as he moved, hitching it protectively up his spine. Darcy shrugged and turned back to her perusal of the handmade jewelry. She couldn’t be everyone’s type, she supposed. Some sabbatical this was turning out to be.

 

* * *

 

The next time she saw him, it was at a market across town. It might be more appropriate to say that he saw her, actually; she was hunting through a bin of plums, trying to find the ripe, sweet ones that she loved so much. She was minding her business, trying to remember any advice her mom had given her on testing ripeness, when a quiet voice at her shoulder said, “Not that one. It isn’t ripe.” The softly-spoken English startled her so badly she jumped, dropping the plum. A quick hand darted out to catch it as it fell, putting it back in the bin.

It was the beautiful man from before. She’d never forget that face.

“Excuse me?” she asked, finally finding her voice. Up close, she could see that his eyes were an electric blue. They bored into her, as if he was dissecting her character, ripping it apart and reassembling the pieces. It was a strange sensation to have, standing over a table of fruit.

He must’ve liked something he saw, because he blinked and his whole posture just seemed to…settle. Stepping in—and wow, that mix of leather and mint was intoxicatingly attractive, making her head swim—he jerked his chin toward the vendor and murmured near her ear, “That plum wasn’t ripe. And the vendor in this market always overprices his produce.”

He took a step away and paused, clearly expecting her to join him. Zipping up her wallet, she smiled apologetically at the vendor—who was clearly muttering unflattering things under his breath about the stranger—and stepped away from the table. Oh, what the hell. If she got murdered for this, at least it would be by the hottest guy she’d ever seen, she thought, and immediately grimaced. The stranger eyed her curiously, like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“So,” she said, smiling broadly, appreciating the way his eyes flickered down to her mouth for the briefest of moments, “where to?”

 

* * *

 

They were on their seventh date, and she couldn’t keep it in any longer. She considered them dates, at least—they were at a table for two in a pretty little bistro, lightly flirting and generally having a good time—but she wasn’t sure James would put it in those terms. It was hard to know with him, really. She thought of this as the seventh date, but in truth she’d seen him every day since he’d ‘saved’ her from the vendor with the overpriced plums. She hadn’t been seeking him out, at first. He always seemed to find her anyway, though, and after a while they made sure to find each other. And now days had turned into weeks, which had turned into several months, and the longer she went without saying anything, the more dishonest she felt.

“Please don’t run away,” she said, drawing his eyes immediately back to her from where he’d been watching the people pass by on the sidewalk, “but I can’t keep pretending I don’t know, and I want you to know that you can trust me.” He stiffened, and she knew that his fingers immediately went to grip the straps of his backpack protectively, even if she couldn’t see them under the table. It was what he always did when he wanted to run.

He eyed her from across the table, frozen in place and skittish, but didn’t get up to leave. She took it as permission to continue. With a heavy sigh, she put her hands palm-up on the table in front of her—a reminder, she hoped, that she had nothing to hide—and wet her lips with her tongue. This had the potential to change everything. She memorized every little detail of his face, just in case she never saw him again after this.

“You’re Bucky Barnes, aren’t you?” She rushed through it as quickly as she could without raising her voice; she knew he wouldn’t want to draw any extra attention. And sure enough, he was halfway out of his chair before she’d even finished the question. Tears burned her eyes. At the same time, though, a weight had been removed from her chest, and she couldn’t regret setting it out in the open.

He caught the glimmer—or at least saw something in her face—and paused, still half-standing. James—Bucky, she realized, now she could think of him by his name—stared at her, frantically searching her expression for something. What, she didn’t know, but she kept it open anyway. He’d been a master at reading her ever since they met.

When he sat back down, the breath whooshed out of her lungs and she felt dizzy. Darcy hadn’t let herself think about this as a possible outcome, and the relief went rushing through her. “Not here,” he said, picking at the little white tablecloth. He looked away, gesturing for the waiter, then glanced back at her. “Come to my apartment.” Part of her wondered if this was an elaborate plan to get her out of public and then silence her, but the vulnerability that flickered in his gaze stopped that thought right in its tracks.

“Okay,” she said, mustering up a smile for his sake, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. Wondering how everything was going to change, she repeated, “Okay.”

Later, after he’d told her everything—well, not _everything_ , but enough that she could guess—he asked her how she’d known. “I was a political science major, once upon a time,” she said, “and I know almost everything there is to know about Steve Rogers.” She trailed off at the end, seeing the way he flinched at his best friend’s name.

Tears glimmered in his eyes when he cut his gaze back to hers, or perhaps it was a trick of the light. “I’m not that man anymore,” he whispered, flinching away as if he expected to be struck down for saying it out loud.

“I know,” she said, startling his gaze back to hers. Reaching over, she lightly pressed her hand against his. “But I like who you are now.”

For a moment she wondered if she’d made a mistake in initiating physical contact, but then his hand slowly turned underneath hers, and he squeezed back.

 

* * *

 

Two months later, an old grainy photo of him was shown on TV, in connection to some kind of catastrophe at the UN. When he walked into her little apartment, bearing coffee and the covrigi from that vendor they loved, she was beyond grateful to see him whole and unharmed. “Have you seen?” she asked, not wasting a second.

“Yes,” he admitted, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. She’d never been happier that he’d allowed her to convince him to shave and sport a man bun; he looked nothing like the picture plastered all over the news. Then his words sank in, and she marveled at the wonder of it. He’d seen the news, and she knew he’d thought about running. And yet here he was, with her, bringing breakfast as planned. Her heart surged with emotion, and she smiled at him.

He smiled back, tentatively, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it. “I think it’s time to contact your best friend,” she suggested, ripping off the band-aid.

Bucky froze, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said, setting the coffee down on the table. He reached for his backpack, and she wondered what she’d said wrong.

“So how do we go about finding him?” she asked, rushing through the question, catching him before he could leave. “For someone who wears such an eye-catching outfit, he doesn’t seem that easy to pin down.”

Still frozen in place, he said nothing. Waving a hand in front of his face, she prompted, “Bucky? Everything okay?”

Clearing his throat, he asked, “You’re coming with me?” She watched as he mouthed the words again silently, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Of course,” she said, smiling at him tenderly. “Who else is gonna keep you out of trouble?”

She didn’t even see him move; one second he was stock still, staring at her, and in the next his mouth was on hers, his hands were in her hair, and his heart was in her hands. It was messy and emotional and perfect. And when his lips parted she didn’t hesitate to follow suit, opening up to him. Their tongues slid against each other in a desperate, perfect harmony. She didn’t ever want to let him go.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned, breaking the kiss and taking a hesitant step back. She blinked, reaching for him before she even understood the words. Her hand landed on his shoulder, and he didn’t move away.

She was still panting, and it took a second for her to gather the breath necessary to ask, “Why?” Confusion coated the single syllable, made even worse by the fact that she was staring at the evidence of her kiss on his mouth. Of desire on his face, obvious in the flush of his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes.

Gesturing with his metal arm, he said, “Look at me, doll. I’m a half a man. Are you sure you wanna be with someone as damaged as me?”

That didn’t deserve an answer with words, so she didn’t give him any. She answered with her mouth instead. It was a demanding, passionate kiss, where she poured out her heart and soul and received his in return. He was grasping her by the end of it, the strength of his hold at direct odds with his offer to let her go.

“You’re not a half of anything, James Buchanan Barnes,” she growled, staring him right in the eye. “And I don’t want to be with anyone but you.”

His whole body relaxed at her words and his face softened. He pressed the lightest of kisses to her forehead in apology, and whispered against her hair, “I don’t think I could let you go now anyway, Darce. One day, I’m gonna be the man you deserve.”

“To start,” she said, leaning back to make eye contact, “let’s go find the brave fool you call your best friend. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get to our happy ending.”

“First thing we’re gonna do,” he said, dragging her to the table with a chuckle, “is eat our breakfast, doll.”


End file.
